


Tavern-lurker

by oh_mr_adams



Category: Henry IV Part 1 - Shakespeare, The Hollow Crown (2012)
Genre: Drinking, Fluff, Kinda, M/M, hotspur can't handle his ale, pre-2h4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:07:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23259649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_mr_adams/pseuds/oh_mr_adams
Summary: Hotspur's regrettable evening in Eastcheap.
Relationships: Prince Hal (Shakespeare)/Henry "Hotspur" Percy
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	Tavern-lurker

Harry Percy, against his better judgment, had found himself in an Eastcheap tavern, far from any form of recognizable civilization and surrounded by the rowdy din of the common folk. His first instinct was to wrinkle his nose at the smell and turn to leave, but the storm outside and the gnawing need for a drink inside of him compelled him towards the bar. His entire body cringed at the constant uproar and with each step he took, his boots clung to the floor, adhered to the decades of spilled beer now ingrained within the wood. After weeks on the battlefield, the long march to the bar on the opposite side of the tavern proved an arduous journey in and of itself, and he was constantly in danger of being struck with the wayward elbows and tankards of the tavern’s more inebriated guests. That was to say, the grand majority.

He examined the empty stool he’d managed to claim for himself thoroughly before deciding he didn’t care to figure out what the mysterious stains consisted of and hoisted himself onto it. The muscles in his shoulders screamed from the exertion and he slumped forward onto the bar, resting his chin in his hands and staring at the far wall in an exhausted daze. The bartender had been wiping circles into the top of the bar with a well-worn rag for what to Hotspur felt like far too long to focus on one square foot of wood, and didn’t even look up to him when he asked what he’d have. 

“Only a pint,” Hotspur mumbled, still staring at the back wall, and eventually the bartender looked up at him. 

“And I trust you can pay?” The man raised an eyebrow in distrust, staring Hotspur down in some sort of tavern-patron initiation ritual. Hotspur figured it was to be expected; he didn’t frequent such establishments, and yet his face went hot with indignation as he folded his arms across his chest.  
“I’ll warrant I’ve already paid a hundred times over, spilling blood for this country and thus your right to own such a destitute and deplorable establishment-” his voice had only begun to rise when he felt a firm hand on his shoulder and heard the clink of tuppence against the top of the bar.

“Get the man his drink,” Hotspur closed his eyes as he heard the stomach-turningly familiar voice say, “Before his temper makes us all regret being here.” Hotspur instantly regretted coming to the tavern, to Eastcheap, hell, back to England. Wading through swamps of mud and blood and stumbling over corpses would have been preferable to being  _ here  _ with  _ him.  _ He slowly peeked his eyes open, the hand still firm and warm against his shoulder, and saw the still-raised eyebrow of distrust on the face of the bartender. Beside him, to his unhappy confirmation, was the prodigal Prince of Wales, smelling heavily of ale and of… something else. Hotspur wrinkled his nose and turned away, though not quickly enough to miss the antagonistically smug grin from the prince, who gave his shoulder an emphatic squeeze before whispering pointedly to the bartender “He’s a war hero,” with exaggerated gravity. The bartender simply nodded, unconvinced, before finally, finally handing Hotspur his drink.

Hotspur drained the tankard so quickly he could hardly taste it and assumed that he was better off for it. He motioned for another as the prince turned to him.  
“So,” Harry Monmouth mused, “What on Earth could possibly convince Harry Percy to appear at such a deplorable establishment as this?” After his second pint, Hotspur finally met the Prince’s eyes, if only for a moment. They were not the sort of eyes a man could look into for too long without feeling some kind of twisting pain in his guts.

“I could ask the same of the Prince of Wales,” he muttered, waving his hand for another drink. The bartender capitulated, the pint came and went and Hotspur could look into the Prince’s eyes for a bit longer. The hand returned to his shoulder and ventured just slightly down his back. “Does your father know you lurk around these sorts of places?”  
“Of course he does.”  
“And how does he feel about the Prince of Wales being a tavern-lurker?” He spat the word ‘Prince’ with additional emphasis.  
“Hal,” the Prince said firmly, and Hotspur grimaced.   
“Must I?”  
“I’d quite prefer it.” The silence was prolonged as Hotspur grimaced into that perpetually-charming smirk.

“I’m not like these…” Hotspur gestured vaguely around the room, “People.” The Prince- Hal- barked out a laugh and slapped Hotspur’s back. Hotspur tensed, his eyebrows somehow furrowing more than they usually did.  
“No,” Hal grinned, “You certainly aren’t.” 

“And thus, I’m held to higher standards in my manner of regarding and addressing members of the royal family…” Hotspur didn’t really know what he was trying to say, he simply did not want to be on a first-name basis with the Prince of Wales. “Having sworn fealty to your father,” in light of recent events, the phrase left a vile taste in his mouth, “And by extension, you…” 

Hal snorted and motioned to the bartender for another round. “Well, you certainly don’t act like it.” Hotspur glowered further.  
“Well, I’m certainly not treated like it.” It was Hal’s turn to pout.  
“Oh, come on, Hotspur. The King loves you.” Hotspur winced as Hal punched him lightly in the arm. “Some might even say more than his own Harry.” Hotspur chewed on the inside of his cheek as Hal smiled at him, and he resented the fact that the Prince was often so impossible to read. Unlike himself, who seemed to be incapable of masking anything he was feeling at any given time, Hotspur couldn’t even hazard a guess as to what Hal felt about anything. Except for drinking and for handsome men. Hotspur drained another tankard as he pondered whether or not he fell into such a category.  
“Loves me enough to commandeer the prisoners I won fully fairly for myself with my sword,” he mumbled. Ale and self-pity were never a good combination, and Hotspur could never hold his ale, much less his self-pity. Hal just looked at him, and Hotspur realized the Prince’s hand was still resting on his back, gradually migrating lower and lower. Hotspur’s hand waved lazily for another round.

“That’s why I don’t get involved with such things,” Hal shrugged, his eyes making Hotspur’s cheeks burn despite his better judgment.   
“With your father or with war?”  
“Both. Either.”

Hotspur scowled. “The reason you don’t get involved is that you’re a bloody disgrace!” He drained his tankard, his fourth or his sixth, he was losing count, and slammed it against the bar. A frown crossed Hal’s face for only a moment before the usual smirk returned. Hotspur would have felt bad, as if he’d committed some indiscretion, or worse, hurt Hal’s feelings, but that smirk never failed to infuriate him so he continued his glowering. He huffed, looking down to stare at the bar, knowing it wouldn’t be smart to order another round and hoping Hal would do it for him. A lock of ginger hair fell into his face, and before he could reach up to move it, Hal’s fingertips brushed against his forehead, returning the lock back behind his ear. It took Hotspur a moment to realize what had happened, but when he did his entire face went red and he purposely looked in the opposite direction, eliciting another laugh from the Prince.  
“Sorry, sorry,” Hal chuckled and gently patted his back. Hotspur let out a forceful sigh. He could feel Hal’s eyes upon him, that smug smirk replaced with some sort of soft, sincere expression of almost affection, and that only aggravated Hotspur further. The reason for this, he couldn’t quite place, but the longer Hal smiled at him like that the more he wished he’d melt into the floor. Or perhaps just spontaneously combust, he mused, in a ball of fire. That ought to be more in character. Hal’s hand slid up his back until it was just barely touching the hair that fell down to the base of his neck. Hotspur shivered. “Are you alright?” He heard the Prince’s voice beside him.  
“Mhm.”

“You’re very quiet.”  
“I’m drunk.”

An exasperated laugh. “Harry Percy, you haven’t been here an hour!” 

Hotspur folded his arms across his chest, his glower devolving into a classic pout. “I’m tired.” He felt Hal’s fingertips just barely brushing through his hair and he wished they were anywhere but that crowded, raucous tavern. His head was starting to hurt and he couldn’t interpret his thoughts, much less his emotions. Determinedly, he picked his head up and stared straight at nothing in particular. “I’m going home.” Hal’s eyes widened as Hotspur pushed himself down from the stool, only to have his knees buckle slightly beneath him. 

He expected to hit the floor, but with a startled “Hey!” Hal caught him, his hands planted firmly on his chest and tried to steady him on his feet. Eventually, Hotspur just leaned against the bar as Hal got down from his own seat, and Hotspur made a noticeable effort to be distracted by the timbers of the ceiling, rather than meet the Prince’s eyes.  
“You’re going home, Hotspur?” Hal questioned with thinly veiled amusement. The closest Hal would ever get to being thinly veiled about anything, Hotspur reckoned. 

“Mhm.”  
“It’s raining.”  
“I’ve seen worse.”  
“You’re in Eastcheap.”  
“I’ll get directions.”  
“Can you walk?”  
“Remains to be seen.”

A silent pause lingered between the two of them and Hotspur was desperate not to meet those eyes. A hand on his waist and he failed. He looked at the Prince, trying in vain to discern anything from his warm expression, wondering if there was anything sincere about that warmth at all. “I’ve got a room here,” Hal said quietly. Hotspur blinked. Was it an offer? A moment passed and Hal grinned again. “I’m offering it to you for the night, Harry Percy.” Hotspur blinked again, eventually just nodding rhythmically in his drunken stupor. Hal just shook his head, not losing that tired grin, and slung Hotspur’s arm around his shoulders. Hotspur winced as his center of gravity was thrown off, but Hal’s arm around his waist kept him from falling. The Prince still smelled heavily of a man who lived in a tavern, but Hotspur didn’t really mind anymore, just let his head lull ever closer to Hal’s shoulder.

“Alright, alright, Harry Percy, at least keep yourself together until we get there,” Hal grunted. An amused smile twitched on Hotspur’s lips, though he wasn’t quite sure what was so amusing. He was soon met with a flight of stairs, which he found incredibly unamusing, and he couldn’t tell if the Prince was laughing or getting legitimately frustrated with Hotspur’s attempts to conquer them. The railing proved to be his savior, though Hal’s hand never left his lower back until he slumped against the wall, having reached the top of them. Hal simply stood there, smiling at him in that contemptible way, as Hotspur did a headcount of his limbs. All there, wait- one extra arm was again wrapped around his waist and Hotspur realized it didn’t belong to him as Hal guided him towards a door. The door opened, Hotspur saw a bed, and he promptly fell into it, eliciting further laughter from the Prince.  
“Stop laughing,” Hotspur muttered, muffled into the mattress.   
“I can’t help it, Hotspur. Sir Henry Percy. Knight of The Most Noble Order of the Garter.” Hotspur eventually rolled onto his side, glowering up at the Prince as best he could.  
“Are you trying to make a point here, Harry Monmouth?” 

Hal sat down on the bed, brushing more loosened ginger locks from Hotspur’s face. “No, no, of course not. That’s always a bad idea with you, isn’t it?” 

“Yes,” Hotspur glared. Another warm smile and Hal laid down on his side to face him, his fingers remaining entangled in Hotspur’s hair. At that point, Hotspur was far too inebriated to feel copious amounts of shame and simply stared into the Prince’s bronze-tinted eyes until their breathing fell into a rhythmic pattern.   
“Do you mind if I stay?” Hal murmured.  
“It’s your damn room.” Hotspur’s nose twitched as Hal’s breath tickled his face.  
“I’m simply asking. Being polite.” Hal’s thumb rubbed against Hotspur’s cheek.  
“Of course I don’t mind.”  
“And sharing a bed with such a disgrace wouldn’t be an affront to your honor?”

Hotspur couldn’t discern the meaning in the faint wavering to Hal’s voice.  
“I think my honor can stand it.”

Hal smiled, shifting vaguely closer and tucking his arm beneath his head as a makeshift pillow. Not hearing any further questions, Hotspur’s eyes fell shut, finally, weeks of exhaustion finally demanding recompense. No force on Earth could have compelled him to open them again, not even when he felt lips pressing against his forehead.  
“Goodnight, Harry.”   
“Goodnight, Harry."


End file.
